Saturday, July 26, 2014

Our usual warm-weather-low-humidity
has turned like a child looks back to see if someone familiar is near. In the
Pacific NW rain magically ceases soon after Fourth of July and doesn’t reappear
until late September/October. But our light sweater July evenings have
dissolved into two days of November downpour and I feel cheated. Where has summer
gone? Will it reappear?

Our yucca
plants produced their white bell blossoms early and with extravagance. They
were glorious for days, reluctantly dropping petals as they dried on the stock.
Our neighbors’ plants were not so long enjoyed. The rain force bent the stems or
denuded them. Their short season concluded face down in the mulch.

Unseasonable
weather reminds me of a metaphor hidden in an Asian figure:

Talk about
tomorrow

the rats
will laugh

Assuming,
hoping against hope, continuing in spite of, planning with no guarantees, are
conditions of our mortality amid storm-beaten flowers, nurturing rain, changeable
weather systems. In front of the wooden yucca
stocks, the iris greenery feed their tubers. Spiking gladiolas are turning a shade of coral
I would not have chosen. Mortality and death are complicated subjects.

Reluctance
by Robert Frost

Out
through the fields and the woods And
over the walls I have wended; I
have climbed the hills of view And
looked at the world and descended; I
have come by the highway home, And
lo, it is ended.

The
leaves are all dead on the ground, Save
those that the oak is keeping To
ravel them one by one And
let them go scraping and creeping Out
over the crusted snow, When
others are sleeping.

And
the dead leaves lie huddled and still, No
longer blown hither and thither; The
last lone aster is gone; The
flowers of the witch-hazel wither; The
heart is still aching to seek, But
the feet question 'Whither?'

Ah,
when to the heart of man Was
it ever less than a treason To
go with the drift of things, To
yield with a grace to reason, And
bow and accept the end Of
a love or a season?

What is our
life expectancy? We look at ancestors who died in their 40s, early 60s, 80s. We
consider the conditions of their living and passing, and extrapolate our years
through the statistics of our improved nutrition and health care and presume we
will live…more.

As children
we kneeled by our beds and prayed the historic prayer, pushed ourselves up to
slide over the sheet, dusting our bare feet off one on the other. Curled in the
dark we silently amended the prayer, but
not for a long time if you please.The many versions first recorded in the 1800s are basically the same but
they differ in the last two lines.“If I
should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take” seems a heavy burden
for a nine year old. Less Catholic prayers exhort angels to watch over me, or simply
pray for safe guidance through the night. Considering the various plagues from
which children in the 1800s died, any of the versions would suffice.

On Sunday
night as we mentally move into the demands of Monday morning, we scarcely
consider our death. We prepare to commence another week of busyness and
stress. But a friend reminds me on Facebook that she has survived cancer and
achieved another birthday. Others have not. Bear with me.

Wednesday, July 16, 2014

Our
neighbors have two toddlers, ages 2 and 4, who hurtle themselves across the
lawn, down the driveway, onto our cul de sac, full tilt with seemingly no other
intention than to move as fast as possible. There is no more mindfulness in
their actions than the peony that drops deep pink petals on the hedge.

In contrast,
one of our seniors walks carefully one foot before the other, trailing her hand
along the wall.

Transitional movement
transfers us from one place to another. A toddler must learn to make that
transference while keeping his balance. As he lifts his back foot leaning toward
forward motion, he is unbalanced. If his concentration falters, his heavily
diapered bottom stays aloft only as long as he hesitates, then falls.

The present
slips so quickly from future to past. Whatever our movement, it helps our
balance as we transition if we give our full attention to what we are doing in
the moment. Then we can look back and appreciate that we were fully involved in
our life. Not merely spending time.

Tuesday, July 1, 2014

As I’m
writing this, it’s a blue sky, cool morning in Washington. The fog of winter
months has evaporated into joyous clear air of summer opening our vista across
the bay and to the distant mountains on the Canadian border. The sparrows and
finches flutter at each other above the feeder before settling to take turns.
Early swallows feed on the wing.

And as I
observe the activities of a natural world, I ask myself, what do I do without
thinking about it, without due process but move on automatic pilot? What would
change if I focused on the elements of a task, just for a few specks of time,
to observe them as a child who is first learning?

The
energies around me change their intensity, ebb and flow like the tide washing
higher on the beach, hiding the small creatures busy finding food and avoiding
becoming a meal. Energies that collect the fragments of me into a vessel to be of use. My energies also change as demands are placed on me by others
or I decide that something has become necessary rather than optional.

Attempting
rootedness in the moment frustrates me because as soon as I breathe in the
moment, I must exhale and that chosen space of time has evaporated as quickly
as fog. As much as I want to stay, my mental list of wonderful potential pulls
me away, like walking an unruly puppy.

But I am
grateful for the moment, for each breath as I take a last turn through our
residents’ rooms, observing them sleep, the rise and fall of their blankets. I
failed them in small ways through lack of energy or distraction. But also today
I paused to glance out the front window to observe the hummingbird flit around
the purple glass flame on its pole; I mindfully listened to the
frustrated silence of people who have no choice but to internalize rather than
risk garbled speech. We created moments of joy feeding our people with our their favorite food, hugs and
conversation.

And I pause,
mindful that I live as fully and with as much presence as I can manage at any
given interval in my life. At the end of the day, that must be my peace.

About Me

A lifetime of coast to coast adventures has happily presented more questions than answers. Midwest born and educated at Calvin College and Western Michigan University, Maxine has worn many hats, from teaching to business, doing whatever was needed with her minister husband while raising 3 kids, and now senior care in the Pacific Northwest. Her writing reflects her eclectic interests.